Pictures as Portraits

There’s elation or sadness, this culture this art, parted from soul to brains; this lavish scare, as to assume for justice, our chains to rattle violently. It couldn’t be real, albeit, it is this thing beyond measures; to evade reality, this eight year reign, where many scream this prosperity. I had to mention it, while breaking news, to invade a sinning crevice; that lurk of time, that deep shadow, that tiny beating. Is it us, spinning at love, this shallow affection; to splatter grays, at wars to breathe, while Hillary shivers from cognac—this seeping message, as to steep into refuge—this woman’s voice. We thought about history, a bit optimistic—ignoring indiscretions; this inner vandal, to fade into reality, this hypnotic air. It couldn’t be us, watching through wings, gnawing at this vicious fruit; this deep psychology, to pardon such evils, while falling in-love; as yet is was, a series at stations, situated at conflicts; to muse eternal, this thing at love, those cries dying in pleasures; to see that voice, that twentieth century, at horrors to confront our minds. It had to be us, this welkin star, where hell peered at demographics: to death with rightness—this ignorant man, at war to finally feel; that rescued nurse, fleeing through traffic, wearing but a birthday suit. It’s pure madness, this heart at retreats, somewhat an alien of his existence; where times are crucial, this inner wind, this stress of Eldorado; to find for perfect, this looming sweat—our minds but a cavity of justice. We must take lights, filtered as to swim, at terrors about this vest; that long inflection—that tenor voice—that welcomed baritone; to drift afar, both scarred and bruised, at love this measured encounter. While laws would have us, we must consent, or rather, abdicate our citizenship: a bit extreme, to die at wars, this thing we couldn’t endorse; but more to justice—as now that time, for Trump to prove America (All parties concerned).